A Single Drop
by ThyBirdofHermesIsMyName
Summary: A single drop raises the sea. If it came right down to it, she would be a tsunami. Come what may, the Sanctuary was getting an overhaul, whether it's fearless leader wanted it or not. She'd see to it, or she'd die trying. Eyeing Lucille, she had to acknowledge that the whole dying part might come sooner, rather than later.


**Evening! I'm on a The Walking Dead kick currently, and I just needed to get This out. Hope you enjoy chapter one. Yes it's a bit vague, but I thought I'd try something different. I should say right off the bat that this isn't strictly following the TV show or the comics. But what is fanfiction for, if not to rewrite canon? Hope you'll give me a chance. ;)**

* * *

"We are respecting our parents' wishes...They didn't want to shelter us from the world's treacheries. They wanted us to survive them."

― Lemony Snicket, The End

The woman plucked the pen cap from between her teeth and snapped it absently back into place, as she stood up from her crouch. She had an entire box of pens in her pack-but waste not want not, especially now. With brisk but fluid motion she folded the map carefully back into a firm little wedge and slid it into its designated plastic baggie. "Map & Sundry" drawn helpfully on the side. The woman was a big believer in labels. She adjusted her hat and slid her sunglasses back over her ears, stalling for time.

There were five people on the road, crouched by an abandoned rust bucket of a car. Two young boys, two young girls, and one adult female. The eldest two, a slender girl of ten and a gangly youth of fourteen, held short spears in practiced, knowing hands. The points were long knives, embedded into the split shaft of the spear and bound firmly with cord. They looked like killing weapons. They were. The younger two, a stocky boy of five and a chubby girl on toddling legs, clutched hands. Both of them were silent, and watched the world with solemn eyes. The woman watched them all briefly, took a swig of water from the canteen hanging from her shoulder.

_We should have stayed on the mountain_.

It wasn't the first time she'd thought it, and there was no doubt in her mind, she'd think it again before they found a community that would take them in. _If_ they found one at all. (A good one, a safe one.) But their time in the cabin had come to a close. They had no close neighbors, no one to interact with. And she knew after nearly a year of solid static on that old CB of Jeth's that no one was coming. Still, she hadn't _planned _on leaving, not until she realized that her youngest two had started creating their own language. They spoke it more than they spoke actual english. It was, under the circumstances, a perfectly natural response to the trauma of their world and part of her knew that. But it still sent a thrill of unease up her spine. They needed _people._ So did she to be honest, she needed more than books and the words she wrote on a page. If only so they didn't devolve into a tribe of feral humans, painting themselves with mud and howling through the trees.

Two short months ago, she'd packed up and started planning their walk.

The woman made a sharp gesture and the children readied themselves; slipped on their hats and backpacks, and in the case of the elder two, readjusted their grips on their weapons. Even though the woman carried the lion's share of their supplies on her own back, including her own weapons, each child carried their fair share. Even the baby carried her own water, strapped snuggly to her chubby torso so it wouldn't chafe her, or swing. Tiny fingers wound with her own calloused ones and she gave a gentle squeeze in reply, stroked down the back of the youngest boys neck. Then they walked, slowly, to accommodate the baby, with not a word spoken between them.

Yet another reason they needed more people, the woman mused. The woman wasn't prone to much frivolous talking, and hadn't been for some time. Children needed more. A lot more. She tried to remember the last time they'd had anything resembling a conversation. Probably up the mountain, she guessed, the only home her children really knew. And she'd taken them away from it. A stab of guilt pierced her heart but the woman shook her head. She knew, to her _bones_, that the risks of an isolated upbringing, no matter how safe that upbringing was, were too great. When Jeth had been alive, it had been different, and that hadn't been a danger.

Her heart squeezed in pain at the thought of the gruff old man.

For someone who claimed not to like people, he had loved her children, the woman was sure of it. He'd taught them, all of them, everything he knew about survival. What was safe to eat, what wasn't, how to fish, track, hunt. How to kill. But he'd also done the majority of the talking, teaching the kids in such a way that they didn't know they were learning. And the scrabble board had nearly been worn through by the time he died, and none of them had the heart to play it after. Cancer eaten away at his bones and he'd asked her to finally end it.

"Taught you e'rything I can." he'd said.

"You're a tough girl. Smart. If anyone can rear these chil'ren up right, in this mess, it's _you._" he'd said.

She'd kissed him on the forehead, right between the eyes, and put a bullet in the same spot. The kids had cried for days and she'd been numb to it all. That had been months ago. She didn't, at this very moment, feel strong, or smart, or even brave. She felt wrung out, and tired, and a little bit like crying.

A twig snapped to her left drawing her out of her reverie, and she was both proud, and sad, when the oldest two shifted into ready stances, their spears poised for quick action. She drew the compound bow from her shoulder and, without haste, nocked one of her precious arrows and sighted. The burn of the draw was a good feeling, and she had the freak dead to rights. After pausing a moment, waiting for another to appear, she finally loosed. The arrow sped to it's target with a gratifying _swoosh,thunk!_ noise and the zombie dropped. Sighing, the woman lowered her bow, and wiggled her eyebrows at the glare her eldest boy gave her. Certainly, she could have let him handle it, and probably she should have-he needed the practice, especially where she could keep an eye on the proceedings. But she yearned to keep them all safe while she could.

"The next one," she promised him (promised herself), and slung the bow back into place. She pressed the baby's shoulder gently, _stay_, and walked with a peculiar silent stride over to the downed zombie, observing. A woman, early-to-mid-thirties, and _fresh_. Hope, followed quickly by worry, surged in her and she looked down the embankment to whence it had come. Freshly dead, and dressed in practical clothes meant _survivor._ No weapon though. A frown teased tugged her lips down and the woman looked down again and noted the boots still on it's feet. They were good boots. She sniffed, rapid, delicate little motions that would tell her more than a great big whiff ever could, and judged that this woman hadn't reanimated that long ago.

Did she dare…?

It was with more disappointment than she would ever admit that the woman admitted that the other's boots were just too large to scavenge. Oh well. Her own weren't falling apart _just_ yet. They might run into luck sometime soon. The map said there was a town ahead.

"Mom?"

A beckoning glance flicked over the tops of her sunglasses, and the eldest girl drew closer. She skimmed her chin gently across her mother's bicep, leaned lightly against the older and observed the body. The woman didn't ask but the girl answered anyway: "It's not all gross looking."

"Hmm?"

"Which means she hasn't been dead that long."

"Hmm."

"But how did she die? There's nothing on her front."

The woman leaned down and pulled her arrow free in one swift, smooth motion, inspected it, and wiped it on the dead one's shirt. It was still usable. The eldest boy came closer, apparently willing to forgo his sulk if it meant showing off, and levered the butt of his spear under the body. He struggled for a moment but managed to tip it onto it's stomach. Dried blood greeted them, a gunshot wound in the upper back. Cold shot down the woman's spine and she sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth.

Both children looked at her, but the woman slid her glasses back up her nose, and gestured for them to move on. The back of her neck prickled with unease as she did so and she paused minutely, listening. There wasn't a sound to be heard-they certainly hadn't heard a gunshot earlier. The zombie had come from the woods, and not from the town. Alone. But none of that made her feel any better. Slinging the bow down into her right hand, she plucked an arrow from the quiver and gripped it in the same palm. If trouble came, she would be ready. God help her, she would be ready.

"Eyes up." the woman told her children, and they walked on.


End file.
